Murder Takes A Bow - A Betty Crawford Mystery (The Betty Crawford Mysteries) (8 page)

"Nothing!" Betty said. Her voice came out far too high pitched for comfort. "I made dinner. Come sit! Would you like some water? I’ll get you water."

Her father lumbered in. "What’s that smell?" He asked, laughing. "Smells like something died in here."

Betty focused on the running water, forcing herself to take a drink before she turned around and snapped at him. That smell was dinner, thank you very much. She’d busted her butt to get it ready in time for them. So what if it wasn’t exactly gourmet cooking? It wasn’t poisoned! She took a breath to steady herself. There was no reason her rotten day had to be taken out on them.

Betty’s mother elbowed him. "Shut your mouth Chet—not now."

Betty could tell when her father caught sight of her at the kitchen sink. He stopped making any noise at all. She knew her shoulders were shaking, and even though she wasn’t facing him her father had an uncanny knack of knowing exactly how she was feeling without her saying a word. She heard him take a step towards her.

"Betty?"

She turned around, determinedly cheerful. "How was your day? Let’s eat, I’m starved."

When Betty took the first bite of her pork chop, she almost gagged. It was burnt on one side and oily on the other. It was all she could do not to spit the meat into her napkin and down a glass of water. Across the table, her parents seemed to have the same reaction. Her mother coughed, and her father’s face tensed up.

As one, they reached for the fiddleheads.

The fiddleheads weren’t much better.

"Betty," her mother said. "This is an interesting recipe. Where did you get it?"

"Online." Betty took a big bite of the pork, hoping that eating it in larger amounts would feel a little better. At least then, it was over with more quickly. Large chunks of food in her mouth even had the added benefit of not forcing her to explain which site she’ been on.

She was wrong. Large bites were worse.

She poked at the broccoli slaw and dressing side on her plate, as though afraid it would leap out at her and attack with another horrible flavor. Surprisingly, though, it actually wasn’t that bad. It was nice and crunchy, and the blue cheese packed a flavorful punch that almost eliminated the other horrible flavors from her mouth.

Well, almost. And, as wonderful as the new side tasted, it wasn’t very filling. It certainly wasn’t enough for a full meal.

Was this really how she’d have to eat for the rest of her life? Betty thought longingly of tuna fish casserole and chicken burritos.

Her father sighed, putting own his fork. "I’m sorry Betty, I can’t eat this. Would you like some pizza? I can order out."

"No thanks," Betty mumbled. She looked at her plate, blinking furiously to forestall the tears in her eyes. Clarise was in jail. She was diabetic. An entire team of middle grade students and their parents hated her. And to top it all off, she couldn’t even manage to cook one healthy meal.

She pushed her chair back from the table. She couldn’t stay down here and pretend that everything was normal.

"I’m going to my room," she said. "You guys eat what you want."

Over the sound of her footsteps, Betty heard her father’s low, rumbling voice.

"Let her cool off Mary. We can bring her up something to eat in a little while."

Betty closed her bedroom door on the sound of dishes being cleared and leaned against it. She closed her eyes, willing herself not to shed tears of frustration.

CHAPTER 12

Betty flopped on her bed. She curled up under the top comforter and hugged a pillow to her head, staring at nothing.

God, why on earth was she so moody today? Even with all the complete and utter crap that had happened, there was no reason for her to continually fall apart. She was strong, damn it! She should be able to deal with life better than this.

The pile of diabetes pamphlets sat on the table by her bed.

There had been something in there about blood sugar affecting mood swings. Was she moody because everything was going wrong, or because she had a stupid disease? Did diabetes give her permanent PMS?

Great. Just great. Permanent PMS and not a single chocolate bar allowed. Her own personal version of Hell on Earth.

Betty’s stomach grumbled.

Well, she wasn’t going downstairs, that was for sure. It probably still smelled like burnt pig and raw fiddleheads, and the idea of facing her parents wasn’t exactly something she relished.

Note to self: follow the recipe next time.

Betty closed her eyes, just for a moment. She inhaled through her nose, and out through her mouth, letting the rhythm of her breath lull her into a calm state of mind. She’d be okay. Really. She just needed to get a grip and get to work. It would help to get something done and end the day feeling productive. She stretched, feeling her spine and shoulders pop, and headed over to her computer.

The to do list welcomed her.

To do lists were wonderful things. They let you never have to think about what needed to be done next—it was all there in writing. And those missing jeans still needed investigating. That would be a good project to lose herself in.

Betty looked back in her e mails, writing down any complaints she’d received. When she was living in L.A., her business had run for six months with only 2 shipping errors. One of them was a lost box, and one had been sent to the wrong address. The second mistake was her fault, so Betty didn’t count it as a post office error. But, in the year she’d been back in Lofton, her business had received more than a dozen complaints. They were mostly for lost boxes, clothes or small amounts that were missing from large shipments. No wrong addresses, and all boxes were checked and double checked to make sure they had the correct quantities before she sent them out.

Someone had to be tampering with her shipments..

How hadn’t she noticed this before?

Betty dove into research. She looked at everything from old Craigslist ads and E Bay to the local online sales pages, trying to find anyone in the Lofton area who was selling products similar to her own. She was looking anyone with any sort of motive for sabotaging her, so someone who might be reselling her products. But whoever was stealing her shipment must have had some brains. They weren’t selling it online in any venue she could identify.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

"Yes?" Betty asked absently.

Her father poked his head in. "Mind if I come in?"

"Sure," she said. "Just let me finish this up." She bookmarked the page she’d just found. No clothing, but a man the next town over was selling a tractor at thousands of dollars less than market value. If she could think of a place to store it, it might be worth buying for the turn around price.

Her father came in and sat on her bed, placing a plate on her desk as he passed. It held a cheeseburger, made just as she liked it. Open face, with only one piece of bread and, she grinned, a smiley face of ketchup on top and a large helping of broccoli slaw. At least one thing from her dinner hadn’t wound up in the trash.

"Thanks, This looks great." Her body would just have to deal with one slice of bread. She was eating broccoli, wasn’t she?

"The slaw is really very tasty," her father said.

"I thought so," Betty said. "It was just everything else that was crap."

"Well," her father said, "I’ve had worse."

Betty raised an eyebrow at him.

Her father made an exaggerated show of checking to make sure her mother wasn’t anywhere within earshot. When he’d confirmed that the coast was clear, he came back to sit on a chair by her desk. He leaned in conspiratorially and whispered, "Your mother’s apple pie tastes like ivory soap."

Betty laughed. This right here was why she loved her Dad. He knew exactly how to cheer her up.

The burger he’d brought was bliss, and the peppery blue cheese slaw was the perfect accompaniment. Betty hummed in appreciation.

After a moment of letting her eat, Chet spoke. "So, what’s going on?" Betty looked up, her eyes wide. For the first time, she noticed that her father was wearing the blue plaid shirt she’d given him for Father’s Day. "Did something happen at the doctor’s?"

Her Dad was wonderful. But this wasn’t something she wanted him to know. Not yet. She chewed slowly, giving herself a few seconds to respond. "The doctor said I need to start eating more healthy," she said. "But it’s just been a long day. Clarise was arrested at the theater, and I spent most of the day trying to help her." There. That was close enough to the truth that it wasn’t quite a lie.

Chet sat up slowly, frowning. "Clarise? What was she arrested for?"

"Murdering Jarvis," Betty said shortly.

Chet blinked. "Murdering Jarvis? Are you serious?" His voice grew louder with as he continued, his expression incredulous. "They think she murdered Jarvis? Are they stupid?"

"Yes." Betty said shortly.

Her father stared at her for a minute before he started to chuckle. "Good God Betty, is that why you have your underwear in a twist? Between that new chief looking to prove himself and Wes Bundy mooning after Clarise like a sick puppy, do you think she’ll stay behind bars long? They’ll catch the real murderer," a look of glee spread across his face, "and Clarise will give them Hell for even thinking it was her. Oh, I wish I could see that!" He clapped his hands. "There won’t be much left of them, I can tell you that."

"Dad."

"Clarise!" He laughed louder. "Murderer!"

"Dad!"

"What?"

"Dad, it’s not funny. Jarvis is dead."

Her father stood and laid a heavy hand on her shoulder. "Honey," he said seriously, "sometimes the best way to kill the devil’s pride is to laugh in his face. Don’t you worry. Clarise will be out in no time at all."

He squeezed her shoulder before leaving Betty to her thoughts, the door shutting quietly behind him.

She felt a little better.

Just a little.

CHAPTER 13

In the morning, Betty woke her parents with breakfast in bed. Breakfast was one thing she did know how to cook, and remembering the way she had treated them the night before made her feel awful. The smiles on their faces when they sat up to receive their trays of cheese omelets and fried ham made her feel a little better. She had been so glad to find that this meal was approved for diabetics. She just drank water instead of juice, and avoided the toast. She’d probably be having something a bit more unhealthy while she was out, but it still felt nice to start the day right. All three of them sitting in her parent’s bed and eating food that reaffirmed her faith in her cooking skills was just what the doctor ordered.

After breakfast, she went upstairs to check if that tractor was still available. It was, but the price had gone up by several thousand dollars.

Opportunity gone. Oh well.

She searched for "Lofton Community Theater murder," to see if there were any updates on the case.

"Stagehand found dead. Theater director arrested."

" Murder Mystery Looms Ahead of Opening Night."

"And Then There Were No Stagehands."

Nothing new.